


Much Too Early In The Game

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy's not totally sold on New Year's.</p><p>Except for kissing. Kissing, he can do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Much Too Early In The Game

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for my absence, i'm blaming life. 
> 
> title from she and him.

Bellamy isn’t totally sold on New Year’s. Not that it exists or anything, just—the romanticized aspects of it. Mostly because it usually comes with a lot of parties, which Bellamy hates, but Octavia loves, which means she goes to at least half a dozen and he always tags along, because he has a lot of unresolved familial issues which she likes to remind him of daily.

He doesn't necessarily  _dislike_ champagne, so much as think it's overrated (he's not a fan of the bubbles). And while he agrees that making out is awesome, the idea of just grabbing some random girl in a bar and planting one on her always put him on edge. What if she didn't want to? What if someone did that to  _O_? 

Honestly, he probably wouldn’t mind a New Year’s party if it was _quiet_ , and small, like in a library or something. He pretty much likes anything as long as it’s in a library. But those aren’t the type of parties that O likes; she likes the ones at goth-themed nightclubs and frat houses just outside her campus and apartments that are way too cramped and filled with smoke from synthetic marijuana.

So when Clarke asks him on December thirtieth, right before their final shift of the weekend ends, what he’s doing for New Year’s Eve, Bellamy says instantly “Hopefully nothing.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she wilted a little at his answer—but he does know better, and then she’s _smirking_ at him, which is his third-favorite look on her. His first is grumpy-sleepy-morning Clarke, and his second is _I’m going to tear you limb from limb_ Clarke.

“Let me guess, you just want to sit at home and drink cider, maybe watch some documentary or _Rome_ , but Octavia’s going to a party and so you’re going, too.”

“It’s disturbing how well you know me.”

“I think you mean awesome,” she chirps, and he grins, because he does.

And if he’s being honest, it _is_ awesome. Pretty much everything about Clarke is awesome, and he’s been trying to ignore that thought for the last six months, but she showed up at his house the day after Christmas with a set of _actual_ Roman legion armor that she commissioned from some guy on Etsy, and Bellamy couldn’t really deny it, anymore. He’s fucking in love with Clarke Griffin, and there’s not a thing he can do about it.

And that’s fine, for the most part. He’s lucky to have her in his life at all, he knows, and he’s not about to make things awkward by telling her, putting that pressure on her shoulders. Usually it’s not even hard to ignore—it’s always there, mildly, in the back of his mind, but. It doesn’t swallow him whole anymore.

Except, then she does things like this.

“So,” she does a quick check of the lobby, before snatching the key to the front door from where it hangs by the register, and goes to lock the door. She tosses him a grin when she’s finished. “Wanna eat me out in the coat room?”

 _Coat room_ is what their boss likes to call the little hallway area between the break room and the manager’s office. It’s got a coat rack in one corner, that’s mostly used as a sort of catch-all by the employees. There’s also a small table, with a crooked fourth leg that Bellamy only knows about because of the first time he and Clarke hooked up on it.

He could say no. Clarke wouldn’t be offended; she’d shrug and say okay and invite him over to watch the _Muppet’s Christmas Carol,_ or _The O.C._ or something. He’d inevitably make them both some dinner with whatever strange ingredients she has in her cupboards, and they’d probably fall asleep together on her enormous bright orange couch.

Instead, he grins and says “ _Definitely_ ,” tearing his apron off as he follows her out of the lobby.

Bellamy met Clarke when he first applied for the job at the coffee shop. She wasn’t the only barista on duty, but she was the one at the register, and the one he had to ask for an application. She’d been nice and chipper, the usual customer-service façade, and fetched him one of the stapled packets and a pen to fill it out.

He’d honestly been feeling pretty desperate at the time—he was still in school, not sure if the funding for his department would fall through or not, in the middle of a drag-out fight with Octavia, and on the cusp of murdering his roommate, who kept getting so high that Bellamy got lightheaded whenever he walked inside. And he snapped clothespins on Catlas’s tail when Bellamy wasn’t home.

He’d thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it—he was wearing _a suit_ —but when he went to hand the application back in, Clarke had looked a little worried.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and then shook her head, like she was disagreeing with herself. “Dumb question, alright, just—wait here for a second.”

And then she was gone, doing something to one of the expensive-looking coffee machines in the back, as Bellamy stood at the counter and watched, a little helplessly.

She was back in under a minute, which _had_ to be some sort of record, and she pushed one of the cardboard to-go cups into his hands. He immediately tried to give it back—he just couldn’t afford a seven dollar cup of coffee, and anyway it’s not like he’d _asked_ for it—but Clarke put up a hand.

“It’s on the house,” she smiled, and looking back on it, that was probably the first step towards where they’ve ended up. “Besides, drinks are free for employees.”

“But I’m not an employee,” he pointed out, and she smirked at him. _Oh no_ , he thought, and then tasted the coffee. _Oh no_ , he thought again. It was perfect, just the way he liked it even though he didn’t drink coffee at all, and Clarke was looking soft and perfect in the sunlight, with a pastel green apron and v-neck t-shirt.

She brushed a curl behind her ear, from where it’d fallen out of the sloppy bun thrown up on her head. “I have a good feeling about you,” she shrugged, and then had to go take care of a customer, so Bellamy walked out of the shop feeling dazed.

They called him the next morning, and when he went in to watch some training videos on the ancient gray desktop, Clarke shot him this fucking grin that said _I told you so_. He made a face at her, and she stuck her foot out to trip him as he went by, and really it doesn’t matter which moment was the defining one; he was already fucked.

The first time they hooked up was an accident.

They’d been working together for four months, been best friends for two—at least, she was Bellamy’s best friend. He still wasn’t sure if he was hers; she talked about her childhood friend Wells a lot, which probably meant _he_ was her best friend, but. That didn’t stop Bellamy from hoping.

They were closing again—they usually worked the closing shift, because they were a great team and always managed to get everything done on time, and were willing to stay a little late if they didn’t.

Bellamy was cleaning out the espresso machine while Clarke angrily stacked up the chairs and ranted about her latest date, some girl named Echo who had let Clarke go down on her for half an hour, but then wrinkled her nose at the thought of returning the favor, instead leaving Clarke half-naked and completely dissatisfied, the night before.

“So find someone else,” Bellamy shrugged, reaching his arm into the machine all the way up to his elbow, trying to scoop out all the soggy grounds. “It’s not like it’d be hard, for you.”

Clarke made a face. “I just—I kind of hate sex with strangers, you know? Casual sex I can do—if I know you. Friends with benefits are great! But Echo and I went on three dates before I went up to her apartment. I’m tired of wasting my time on people, only to find out they weren’t worth it.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Bellamy nodded, because he did, but when he glanced up, he found Clarke staring at him, calculating. He tensed up instantly—calculating Clarke never meant anything good.

“What did you mean, it wouldn’t be hard for _me_?”

If Bellamy could go back in time, and punch himself in the mouth two minutes ago, he would. But as it was, he couldn’t, so he swallowed and tried to keep his face blank, even though it was no use. He was _awful_ at Poker.

“I mean—you’re gorgeous,” he huffed, waving the hand with the coffee-stained towel in it, letting it slap the counter on its way down. The sudden sound of it made Clarke jump in surprise, but she never took his eyes off him. “Come on, Clarke, you know that. You don’t need me to point it out.”

“Lots of people are gorgeous,” she’d argued, because she couldn’t just _not_. “Like— _you_. You’re gorgeous.”

Bellamy stared at her for a moment. She was a good few yards away, across the lobby, but the lights were all on, and he could see her perfectly. There were tables and chairs and the front counter in between them, but he hardly even noticed.

“Well,” he said, raising a brow, because—were they really about to do this? He saw her swallow, the movement thick in her throat. “You’re also really smart. Like, _fucking smart_.”

Clarke grinned a little wryly, taking a few steps forward, unhurried. “You’re _fucking smart_ too,” she said. “And funny.”

“Your face is funny,” he said immediately, and she rolled her eyes. “But sometimes your jokes are too. When they’re so bad they _have_ to be funny, so I don’t lose complete faith in the human race.”

“Thanks,” she said, wry, and he grinned. “You’re caring,” she added. “You care about everything and everybody, and that’s—that’s nice. It’s beautiful.”

His breath hitched in his throat, making his words a little shaky around the edges. “Did Clarke Griffin just call me beautiful?”

Clarke hummed. “And kind,” she added, taking those last few steps up to the counter, as he leaned over on both forearms, all cleaning forgotten. “And strong,” she smirked, reaching up to trail a hand down his arm, where it was covered by the sleeve of his black shirt. “I bet you could carry me, or pick me up.”

Bellamy wet his lips a little, chapped and dry. “Let’s find out.”

As it happens, he can both pick her up _and_ carry her, all the way back to that table in the coat room, where he sat her down and then flicked open her jeans, sinking down to his knees on the hard cement floor.

“You don’t have to,” she reached out to tug him back up, but he just swatted her hand away, tipping his head up to grin at her.

“Not everyone is opposed to oral, princess,” he said, and leaned in to give a wet lick at where her underwear was beginning to soak through. She moaned his name, broken and desperate, and rolled her hips against his mouth. “In fact,” she whined as he pulled back, and he kissed her thigh. “Some of us fucking love it.” He dove back in before she could say anything else, because he’d decided that was his fourth favorite Clarke look—speechless and satisfied.

Bellamy sort of assumed it was a one-time thing, until she showed up at his place for their annual B-horror movie binge and Thai take out, and instead dragged him into the bathroom with her, and sucked him off against the door.

“Now we’re even,” she’d grinned, fixing her shirt so Murphy couldn’t be an asshole about it. He still _would_ be of course, it’s Murphy. But at least she wasn’t giving him any actual evidence.

Except, they weren’t even, not really. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be, because halfway through _The Faculty_ , Bellamy slid his hand up her skirt and Clarke let him, panting little half-moans and mewls into his neck as she came.

After that, it was like a switch was flipped inside both of them, and they couldn’t get enough. They fucked everywhere in Bellamy’s apartment, much to Murphy’s disgust, and most places in Clarke’s, although that was a little harder since she has _four_ roommates to listen for and dodge. They fucked in the storage closet at work, and the handicapped bathroom stall, and the coat room _again_ —which is how they broke the table leg—and in the backseat of Bellamy’s car.

If it was just fucking, Bellamy might have survived it. But as it was, they’d have shower sex and then hang out in his room the rest of the night, shit talking Rob Zombie remakes, and the merits of the Spanish Civil War. Clarke would give him a hand job on their lunch break, and then hold his hand while he walked her home. It was Thursday dinners that turned into everyday dinners, and sleepovers, and sweet lazy morning sex that made him want to curl up around her and just never leave.

But more than anything, he wanted to kiss her.

It started that first night, after he’d brought Clarke over the edge with his tongue. He pulled back and up, wincing as his knees popped, ducking down to kiss her because—fucking _finally_ , he could.

Except then she put a hand on his chest, gentle as anything but enough to make him freeze. Her smile was soft, apologetic, and Bellamy felt his heart sink to the floor.

“We should probably have some ground rules,” she explained, and after a moment he nodded for her to continue. Having _ground rules_ made it clear she wasn’t thinking it was a mistake, or that they should stop. That was something, at least.

“No sleeping with other people while you and I are still hooking up,” she said, firm, like she thought he might argue. And for a moment he almost did, just on principle. But honestly, after tasting Clarke, with the very high possibility of getting to do it _again_ , the thought of being with other people seemed less than appealing.

“Deal.”

“No telling anyone,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “That includes Octavia.”

Bellamy made a face. “Why the fuck would I tell Octavia? That’s gross—we don’t talk about our sex lives.”

“You say _fuck_ too much,” Clarke chirped, amused, and he pinched her. “Maybe no kissing,” she said, at the end, clearly shy about it, like she thought he’d be upset.

And he was, is the thing. He _was_ upset, because—why shouldn’t she want to kiss him? He was extremely kissable, and actually really good at it, so it seemed like a shame that she’d never want to.

“It just might complicate things,” she said, like she could read his thoughts.

Bellamy nodded, leaning in to brush his nose against her cheek, so she’d know he wasn’t mad. “Okay,” he agreed, and she hugged him.

That was two and a half months ago by now, and even with everywhere else Bellamy’s had his mouth on her, he’s still never kissed Clarke Griffin—not _really_. Not the way he wants to.

But—it’s fine. He’s fine. He gets to finger her in the bathroom, or fuck her in his bed and wake up with her sprawled all over him, and he gets to be her favorite person in their city, so. He can live without some making out, as long as he gets to keep _her_.

Octavia’s noticed, of course. She doesn’t know the details, doesn’t know they’re actually sleeping together. She thinks he’s in love with her, and going to get his heart broken. She also thinks he’s a pathetic dumbass and, well. She’s not _wrong_.

O marches into his apartment—he and Murphy live on the thirteenth floor, and there’s no working elevator, so at this point he’s just decided that any thief dedicated enough to break into their place, deserves anything they can grab—the night before Christmas Eve. He’s just gotten back from the shop, from dropping Clarke off at home, lingering with his hand in her hair for just a few seconds too long, even though she didn’t seem to notice. But he’s been doing that a lot lately, forgetting himself, so it’s only a matter of time before she catches on, and decides to end things, before they get too messy.

He wishes he could tell her he’s already a mess. That she’s the only thing that makes it better.

“We’re heading out,” Octavia declares, like a battle cry, and glares at where he’s sitting in his pajamas on the couch, Catlas disappearing the moment O shows up because he, like his owner, also hates people. Bellamy’s outlining a lesson plan on _Old Yeller_. He’s subbing an English class next week—the school only calls him when they’re last-minute desperate, which means he only works there a couple days a month, so he still needs the coffee shop job. But lately he’s been getting more and more gigs, with students who actually remember him, and like him, and are interested in what he’s trying to teach.

Bellamy frowns up at her, over the rims of his glasses. He’s fallen asleep with them so often that they sit permanently crooked on his nose. “Who’s heading out? To where?”

O squints a little, confused. “Me and Lincoln, we’re camping out at Otter Creek. I told you two weeks ago.”

He tries to think back, to remember the conversation, but he keeps drawing blanks. Mostly he remembers that Clarke stayed over two whole days in a row, because by some sort of miracle they both had the same days off, and they’d done nothing but fuck, make pancakes, and lay around his room mostly naked.

He shakes his head a little to clear it, and offers an apologetic smile. “I forgot, sorry. You guys are leaving _tonight_?” He glances at the window, where the sky is already black. Octavia rolls her eyes, long-sufferingly.

“Yes, _mom_. Don’t worry, we’ll take all the backroads.”

He frowns deeper. “Be careful.”

“We won’t stop for any bleeding, raving hitchhikers,” she promises. “I like my face attached to my body, thank you very much.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of deer,” Bellamy says, wry. “But sure, Leatherface works too.”

Octavia grins, but then worries her lip a little, looking torn. “You’re sure you’ll be okay by yourself? Is Clarke coming over?”

“I’ll be fine,” he waves her off. “You know I hate people—I’ll just read and then go to bed early, or something. I might finally work on that scarf I was supposed to have done by now.” It’s a sky scarf, with a different swatch for each sky he saw that year. He’s supposed to be on the last one, obviously, but in reality he’s somewhere along number twelve.

“What about Clarke?” O presses, even as he ushers her towards the door. He loves his little sister, he does, but now that he knows that for once, he’ll be able to have a quiet and relaxing New Year’s in the comfort of his own bed? Yeah, he’s ready for that.

“What about her?” At her unimpressed look, he sighs. “She probably has plans already. It’s fine; I’ll see her Monday. Have fun in the mountains.”

“Happy New Year, loser,” she says, making a face as she hugs him, because it’s very important that he knows she loves him, but can also kick his ass.

He grins anyway, and ruffles her hair the way he knows she hates. “Happy New Year, brat.”

“Call Clarke!” she yells as he shuts the door. He ignores her.

Clarke doesn’t.

Bellamy spends most of New Year’s Eve lounging around in his boxers, eating raisin bran straight from the box and watching the _Twilight Zone_ marathon on Syfy. Murphy’s visiting—someone. He’s pretty sure it’s not family, but he doesn’t really know much about his roommate, other than the fact that he’s a prick, so anything’s possible. Catlas comes out eventually from wherever it is that he hides all day, and he even lets Bellamy hold him in his lap.

It’s nearly eleven o’clock at night, when Clarke calls him.

There’s a lot of noise in the background, people shouting and those little cardboard kazoos they sell at Party City, with the shiny colored paper in a fringe at the ends. There’s music too, the kind with a heavy base, which is the only part of it he can make out.

“Bell!” she shouts, very clearly drunk.

He sighs, fond in spite of himself; he still hates parties, but. He would have gone, for Clarke. “Princess.”

“I like it when you call me that,” she says, quiet like it’s a secret, and now he _knows_ she’s drunk, because sober Clarke would never admit that. He grins.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “And I like it when you hold my hand, and when you play with my hair, and when you kiss my shoulder when I move in my sleep, and—” she cuts herself off, which is probably for the best, because Bellamy’s just sort of frozen in place, with cereal all over his face and a little spilled in his lap, wide-eyed and gaping.

“O told me to call you,” she says, and he can breathe again.

“Well, now you can tell her you did.”

She hums a little. “Find anyone to kiss?”

He frowns—she’s teasing, he knows, but she’s at a _party_ , presumably with a lot of guys and girls who would be willing to kiss her. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if everyone there wanted to kiss her.

“I thought we weren’t doing that with other people,” he says, keeping his voice light. He has no right to be jealous, he _knows,_ but jealousy doesn’t really listen very well. And he can’t help feeling a little bothered at the thought of someone else kissing her at midnight, when he still hasn’t kissed her at all.

“We aren’t _hooking up_ with other people,” she says, like it’s obvious, which. Well, he supposes it is. “There were no rules about kissing.” There’s a pause and she adds “Other people,” belatedly.

“Maybe there should be,” he grumbles, and he doesn’t _really_ mean for her to hear, but she does.

“Maybe,” she agrees, slow, like she’s talking herself into it, and Bellamy’s frozen again. “I think I’d be okay with that,” she says, quiet. Just for him.

“Me too,” he says, and maybe he sounds a little— _a lot_ —desperate, but he just can’t fucking miss his chance, if this is all he’s got. If it means what he thinks it does.

There’s a smile in her voice, now. “Okay. Bye, Bell.”

“Happy New Year,” he says, but she’s already hung up.

He should probably feel better about life—Clarke apparently doesn’t want to kiss other people, which he’s pretty sure means she’s at least open to kissing him, which might mean she’s open to other things as well—like actual dinner dates outside their apartments, and kissing in public, and letting him brag about her to all their mutual friends.

But maybe he’s reading too much into this. Maybe she just likes kissing, and is tired of _not_ doing it. Maybe she doesn’t even care either way.

Bellamy’s still thinking about it, in an absent-minded way, as he switches the channel to the New York Ball Drop, with just two minutes to spare. He’s just settling back into the cushion, trying to coax Catlas over with little _tsk_ noises, when there’s a knock on the door.

He’s barely up, when it just swings open, and Clarke walks in. She’s wearing a silvery-blue dress that is honestly unfair, and a pair of platform boots because she hates being the shortest one in a room. Her hair’s all done up, or at least _was_ , but half of it’s fallen out by now, hanging in curls around her shoulders, probably from dancing—or jumping around, which Clarke likes to _call_ dancing.

She grins over at him, and Bellamy feels the sudden urge to take a shower and shave. It’s just—he didn’t think he’d see anyone today. He would have cleaned up, if he’d known (and honestly, he should have known. It’s _Clarke_. The moment she found out he was alone on New Year’s, she’d probably hailed a taxi and started over here, no matter how drunk she was).

In the background, he can vaguely hear the countdown. They’re at seven, now six, and Clarke tips her head back to beam up at him, once they stand toe to toe.

“Happy New Year, Bell,” she says, soft, and then leans up and kisses him.

It’s nothing like he’d expected—it’s not rough, or desperate, or wet. It’s soft, like she’s testing the waters, like she’s trying to figure out if he wants this, too.

That’s the thought that breaks him, and Bellamy reaches down to pull her in, as tight as she can fit, groaning when she opens her mouth up for him.

She laughs against his mouth, pulling back to breathe. But she’s still grinning up at him, and she doesn’t go very far, so he takes it as a good sign, and tugs her back to the couch. She falls down in his lap, like a hundred times before except _better_ , because now he can press little fluttery kisses all over her face while she giggles. She still tastes like champagne.

“Want to know my New Year’s resolution?” she asks, moaning a little when he tongues at that spot right behind her ear. She grinds down against him, reflexively, and he grins.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me regardless.”

She shoves his shoulder, but he just tightens his arms around her waist. “First, I’m going to have hot relationship sex with my boyfriend,” she says, reaching for the zipper on her dress as his mouth goes dry. Bellamy swats her hand away, so he can peel it off, himself, letting it pool in a puddle of shiny material at her waist.

“Then I’m going to make out with him,” she grins. “A _lot_. And then I’m taking him out for dinner, the next day.”

Bellamy grins back, leaning up to kiss her. He slows this one down, moving his mouth against hers, trying to show her. _Yes, yes, yes_ , and he hopes she can taste the word on his tongue. He hopes she can feel it making her toes curl.

She laughs again when he pulls back, and she brushes a hand through his hair when he leans in to smack a kiss against her breast. “You don’t have to convince me, you know,” she teases. “I’m in. You can kiss me whenever you want.”

Bellamy’s still grinning, which makes it hard to kiss her, and Clarke’s laughing again too, but they manage.

“Trust me,” he says, running a hand up her thigh. “I’m never gonna stop.”


End file.
